


The Rooftop Dancer

by GraySonOfGotham



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Dancing, Deaf Character, First Meetings, Graffiti, M/M, No Dialogue, Poetic, Smoking, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-02 23:30:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15806757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraySonOfGotham/pseuds/GraySonOfGotham
Summary: He was always there, on the rooftop of the Myer’s Family-Owned Bakery, between First Gotham Bank, and the rundown second-hand clothing store.His eyes would be closed, like he was listening, waiting for something. At this time, Main Street would hold her breath and wait with him.





	The Rooftop Dancer

He was always there, on the rooftop of the Myer’s Family-Owned Bakery, between First Gotham Bank, and the rundown second-hand clothing store.

It was one of the older parts of Gotham. It was there when Gotham was only a small town of a few thousand people compared to the multiple millions now. It was not the bad part of town, just old. Very, very old. Most of the stores had already been boarded up and closed, drowning in years after years of graffiti.

But it was the perfect stage for the rooftop dancer.

Every Sunday afternoon, without fail, he would walk down Main Street, his hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants or ripped jeans or basketball shorts. He would wear dark sunglasses over his eyes whether it was sunny or cloudy or rainy.

He would always seem to walk past the alleyway without a glance, but he would always pause in front of it and slowly turn and look deep into the darkness.

After a fleeting moment, he would turn on his heels and walk into the alleyway. A minute later, he would pull himself up onto the old, rusty ladder that waited between First Gotham Bank and Myer’s Bakery.

He would step onto the lower rooftop of the bakery, taking a moment to look at the never-changing patterns of faded spray paint. He would examine the puddles on the roof, making note of them in his mind.

Then, he would remove his sunglasses, placing them on the ground by the ladder. Next, he would take off his sweatshirt, tossing it carelessly in the same general direction.

He would then walk to the center of the small rooftop and stand there, as still as could be.

His eyes would be closed, like he was listening, waiting for something. At this time, Main Street would hold her breath and wait with him.

When he finally hears what he is looking for in the strained silence, he would start to dance. He moved with a special grace that he lacked in the way he walked and dressed. The rooftop dancer would always dance with his eyes closed.

Yet, he never ran into any obstacles, stepped on any loose pebbles, or splashed in any puddles left after last night’s rain.

He would dance and dance and dance, a new dance each week, until the shadows grew long and the chill started creeping in. When the groping shadows of the rundown second-hand clothing store covered the dancer’s stage, when his warm, golden spotlight disappears for the week, he would stop.

Not abruptly, not slowly. He stopped like a small sigh, just letting go of the music he picked up earlier, coming to a gentle halt in the middle of his painted stage. His head drops, his shoulders droop, and he gathers his things.

The rooftop dancer would then appear back on the right side of Main Street again, his sweatshirt tossed over his shoulder, his sunglasses concealing his eyes from the setting sun and the rest of the world. He would stand a moment on the street, looking into the alleyway, as if saying a silent good-bye. Then, he would continue down the abandoned stretch of the street, into the sunset, and back into his black-and-white life.

The rooftop dancer is not blind. No, he can see the colors of his stage, the softness of his unreliable spotlight, but he did not see his audience of one.

For the rooftop dancer, his only audience had always been the skies, the pigeons that nest in the cracked crevices of the bank wall, and the fat, pink devil baby drawn next to the name _Sammy_ on his stage.

But there was another.

The other sat across the way, in the balcony seat that was an ancient tailor shop. He saw the rooftop dancer by accident. And since that accident, he would wait for the rooftop dancer every Sunday afternoon, rain or shine, because that was what the rooftop dancer did.

He would sit with his legs dangling over the edge of the building, one hand holding a cigarette, or other shielding his blue eyes from the dancer’s blinding spotlight.

He was always there before the dancer starts. He would watch as the dancer slowly dragged his way down the street, have the internal struggle in front of the alleyway before giving in and climbing up.

He would watch as the dancer memorized the new setup of his stage with his head held low. Then, he would watch as the head came up, eyes closed, and he waited.

The other would always hold his breath during this time. No matter how much the smoke tickled his throat, he would only exhale when the dancer started moving again.

Yet, he would never stay until the end. Sometime during the performance, when the curtains of shadows have almost closed, the other would stand silently and leave, so that the only trace of him would be the ghostly scent of smoke lingering in the air.

But one fateful day, the other was late.

He ran up Main Street, his heart pumping with effort, and he knew by the length of his moving shadow that the show was starting soon.

At the exact moment he reached the alleyway where he climbed up into the balcony seats, the rooftop dancer paused in front of his alleyway on the other side.

They stopped and looked at each other.

The rooftop dancer wore black, ripped jeans, his hands stuffing in its pockets. His dark sunglasses flashed in the lowering sun. After a brief moment’s hesitation, the other crossed the street.

He approached the dancer, who stood there silently, just watching.

The other greeted him. The rooftop dancer did not respond.

The other then goes on to explain how he really liked the dancer’s performances. The dancer remained silent for a few seconds. Then, he spoke, slowly, like it was hard to get the words out.

He was deaf.

He could read the other’s lips, but he could not hear him.

Surprised, the other asked how he could dance so well without hearing music.

The dancer smiled and told him he imagines the music in his head, which is why he must close his eyes when he danced to imagine the music more clearly. He then apologized for never noticing the other and invited him join him on the bakery’s roof to watch.

The other declined politely, going back to his humble balcony seat across the street.

When the rooftop dancer started this time, he kept his eyes open, looking up and out towards his audience for the first time.

His eyes were bright and blue, and they mirrored the music no one else could hear.


End file.
